By Marisca Pichette

My mother’s favourite windows

Were always painted on.

They had no latches,

Nor suffered any dispatches

And looked out on painted lawn.

Crafted window boxes mimicked life,

But not a real flower could be found.

For in the painted house

The world had gone to ground.

She loved her painted windows –

Looked at them every day,

And wondered what it would be like

To ever have to stray;

To walk out of her painted door

And leave those whims behind –

Forge out into the moving world

And open up her eyes.